


The Taste Of Sorrow

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-31
Updated: 2006-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8067109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: T’Pol reacts to Archer’s death.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: This could be considered a â€œmissing sceneâ€ fic from Zero Hour. I found it odd that Tâ€™Pol and Trip didnâ€™t talk about Archerâ€™s death at all onscreen, and this vignette is the answer to that.  


* * *

My grief consumes me.

I stand in my captainâ€™s ready room, the words of the Xindi humanoid echoing in my ears. They are of little comfort to me at this moment, yet I mull them over in my mind just the same.

_Your captainâ€™s sacrifice will not be forgotten_.

He was correct, this Xindi. Jonathanâ€™s sacrifice will not be forgotten. It will not be forgotten by the Xindi and Human races who now have a future because of my Captainâ€™s courage. It will not be forgotten by the crew of this ship, who fought valiantly by his side, some sacrificing their lives alongside his so that our universe would not be destroyed.

And neither will I forget. It is my vow, my tribute to a man that I admired, respected, and loved.

I stare out the portal in this small room, the bowels of the Xindi Aquatic ship bouncing a cool, soothing green reflection off the walls. I take solace in its serenity, my eyes closing as it washes over me like a cool bath soothing a fever. In my hand, I clutch a book, a non-descript pile of parchment in binding. Upon examination, it would reveal nothing about Archer himself. I do not even know the title or its contents, nor do I care. I hold it because it belonged to him. It belonged to my friend, and I want him back.

Yet even now, I know my grief pales in comparison to that of another. Somewhere else on this ship, Commander Tucker sits alone and attempts to absorb the news that his best friend and captain will not return. My three years worth of memories cannot compare to the lifetime of his, yet my sorrow feels as thick, as painful, as his must be. Just the thought of the pain in his eyes as Malcolm told us brings fresh tears to my own eyes. We were so close in that moment, but still, so painfully far away.

I ache to go to him, to comfort him, my lover, confidante, and friend. My hands itch to slide around him, to pull him to my chest and run my fingers through his hair as we shed tears together over this man who meant so much to both of us. He needs the solace of my presence, the warmth of my body, the sound of my grief. And I, in my unfamiliar, emotion-filled mind, need his strength and friendship.

As if fate has intervened, the chime on the ready room door chirps and startles me out of my dark musings. I bid entrance to my guest, my entire body tightening in nervousness, fear, and anticipation as Charles Tucker walks over the threshold. His eyes catch mine, and in their red-rimmed depths, I see the perfect mirror of my own sorrow. He walks over, eyes never leaving mine, and stops within inches of me.

â€œDâ€™ya got a minute, Tâ€™Pol?â€ He asks quietly, then blinks and looks away.

I feel cold as the power of his gaze leaves my face. I long to reach across the space between us, cup his face in my hands and force his eyes back to mine. Yet I feel powerless, caught in a quagmire of uncertainty. We are so unsure with each other, he and I. It invades our every encounter, and at this moment, I curse it.

â€œI do,â€ I answer him, and to my chagrin, my voice is flat. Devoid of the warmth I so desperately long to give him.

Sighing, Trip runs a hand through his unruly hair. â€œThe aquatic ship is carryinâ€™ us along just fine. Our warp engines could use the rest. Hell, everybody could use the rest. But I canâ€™t seem to sit still. I needâ€”â€ he pauses, searching for the right words. With a sigh, he sits on the bench across from Archerâ€™s desk and rubs his jaw tiredly. â€œHell, I donâ€™t know what I need.â€

I stand there, a trembling tribute to the concept of hesitation, and say nothing.

After a period of silence that is rife with the unspoken, his blue-eyed gaze raises to meet mine again. The tiredness in it lays wrapped around mourning, tugging at the same emotions within me. I am struck by how much we are the same in this moment, our sorrow and exhaustion overwhelming every other recognizable feeling. Our relationship has been so marked by our differences, yet in this profound instant, our grief makes us one.

He stands abruptly, startling the pool of my thoughts like a rock skipped across water. â€œIâ€™ll let you get back to yourâ€ â€”he gesticulates haphazardlyâ€” â€œyour duties. Iâ€™ll be in my quarters if you need anything.â€

I nod, no words springing forth in my mind. I ache to reach for him, but my body betrays me, my hands tightening on the book as my eyes follow him longingly out the door.

It is so new to me, this need for touch. It has accompanied the influx of emotions like warmth with the rise of the sun. I did not see it coming. Before this year, I prided myself on my independence, on my self-sufficiency, on my detachment from life and my condescension for the illogical mood swings of humans. But now, I stagger under the weight of my own emotions if I do not feel the hand of a friend on my arm, or the touch of fingers brushing against mine. The neuro-pressure sessions with Trip, once a nuisance, have become a panacea for every problem I encounter. It seems as though one touch from him is worth a hundred hypo sprays, and I crave each moment that his skin contacts mine.

In remembrance, my hand tingles from the pressure of his fingers just hours ago, moments before our world was shattered by loss. Every second of that encounter replays in my mind. His eyes are awash with emotion: agitation as he worries for his friend, warmth as he finds beauty in my marred skin, a teasing sparkle as I reveal an intimate secret.

Yet the memory is not enough to sustain me forever.

I need him now. His warmth, his loyalty, his friendship, his passion. I need his limbs tangled with mine as I lay surrounded by his scent. I need to sleep in the security of his arms, if just for a moment.

I sink into Captain Archerâ€™s chair, the feel of it invoking a fresh wave of grief across my mind. It tastes bitter, this emotion, full of regret and loss so profound it chokes. I lay the book down carefully, staring sightlessly across the room. Even now, in the strongest moments of my sorrow, needing Tripâ€™s touch is not enough to propel me forward, not enough to break through the last of my insecurity and lead me to his quarters. The catalyst I need to accomplish this has eluded me.

Fate, it seems, has determined to intervene once again. The chimed doorbell rings, but this time, my guest does not wait for permission to enter. Trip strides in once more, the purposeful nature of his steps belying the uncertainty I know exists in his thoughts. He stands across the desk from me, leaning over and placing his palms on the smooth surface. His head becomes nearly level with mine and he stares, with eyes the color of cobalt, into the very recesses of my soul.

â€œI just canâ€™t let you do it,â€ he says, his voice a mere whisper.

â€œWhat do you mean?â€

â€œI canâ€™t let you sit here and suffer alone. Hell, cominâ€™ in here a few minutes ago was flimsy excuse enough. You canâ€™t be a captain like this, Tâ€™Pol.â€

I canâ€™t help myself as I answer, â€œI shouldnâ€™t have to be a captain at all.â€

He blinks as his eyes moisten at my words. â€œYouâ€™re right. You shouldnâ€™t. But you are, and you need to be strong.â€

â€œIâ€™m trying!â€ I whisper, suddenly feeling trapped by my grief. It pushes at me, prods at me painfully until I burst from my chair, scooting away from him and toward the end of the desk. â€œI need to be alone,â€ I finally say.

â€œTâ€™Pol. Thatâ€™s the last thing you need,â€ he says tiredly.

I stand stiffly, my silence a testament to my inability to let go.

â€œAnd itâ€™s the last thing I need,â€ he finally says. Walking around to face me, his eyes bore into mine. â€œI lied. I didnâ€™t come in here just for you. Iâ€”â€

In wonder, I watch as his eyes flood with tears and the rawest of his emotions are poured out to me. He swallows, fists clenching as he struggles to regain his control.

â€œI need you,â€ he finally whispers brokenly.

His tortured words are the only impetus I need. My hands come up, one landing on his chest and shoulder, the other on his warm jaw. My fingers stroke his face, eyes holding his as his grief spills over, tears running down and over my thumb where it rests on his chin. In one powerful move, his arms come out and wrap around me, pulling me close into his body until we are in full contact from knees to shoulders. I feel immediate relief as his arms envelop me, the weight bearing down on my heart suddenly lessened as we share the burden of our grief.

I lay my cheek against his shoulder, his head buried in my neck.

â€œI canâ€™t believe heâ€™s gone,â€ he murmurs against my skin. â€œHe was just here! But heâ€™sâ€”oh, God, Tâ€™Pol, Jonâ€™s dead.â€ His breath catches on a sob, and suddenly, heâ€™s crying, broken in my arms.

My only answer is to clutch him more tightly, my hands constantly moving across his chest and shoulders in an attempt to soothe us both. Tears of my own flow unchecked down my face. Whatever control I had regained since the Trellium addiction has fled, raw emotion consuming me. But I know it is right, these emotions. Jon deserves our mourning. He was our friend, and anything less would be insulting to his memory.

As the wave of grief overtakes me, I bury my face in his shoulder and let sobs wrack my own body, my arms clinging to him for support. I am silent in my sorrow, the small movements of my body and the wet tears on my face the only signs of my deep feelings. But I feel connected to Trip on an elemental level as we cry together.

After a minute of eternity, the swell of my grief passes and I raise my weary eyes to meet his. There is a depth there, an unguardedness that I have never seen. His finger travels the length of my face, from forehead to chin.

Finally, he speaks. â€œWill youâ€”â€ he hesitates. â€œWill you come to my quarters tonight, Tâ€™Pol?â€

I stare at him in disbelief. What is he asking of me? When it comes to matters of intimacy, these humans are rarely clear in their intentions.

He must see the confusion in my eyes, for reassurance is written all over his next words. â€œI just donâ€™t want to be alone, and I donâ€™t think you need to be, either. I donâ€™t know what we have between us, Tâ€™Pol, but I know that right now, youâ€™re the only one who understands what Iâ€™m goinâ€™ through.â€

I contemplate his request a split second before I answer. â€œI will come,â€ I state softly, my hand cupping his face.

He nods, and with one last squeeze to my frame, he backs away, his hands dropping to his sides. I feel immediately bereft as his warmth leaves me. For one, unguarded instant, it is all I can do to keep my hands at my sides and away from him, when all I long to do is grab him and pull him back to me.

â€œIâ€™ll go then,â€ he whispers, eyes locked to mine. â€œCome soon.â€ The addition of those two words tugs at my being, and I watch as he suddenly turns and strides out the door.

As it closes behind him, I feel a pang of loss more profound than even my grief. It was as if his presence had served to support me, and with out it, I am on the verge of collapse. Quickly, I straighten the disorder I have created in this now sacred space. I turn back for one moment as I move toward the door, my eyes sweeping the room, encompassing everything that reminds me of my captain, my friend.

Later, as I lay, finally at peace in Tripâ€™s warm embrace, I realize that Jonathan Archer is gone, but his sacrifice will truly not be forgotten.

And neither will he.

 

End.


End file.
